


Who dares speak aloud these words (intended for the heart to speak)

by sunmoonstarsrain



Series: In the absence of sound (she hears her heart break) [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Nekoma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:15:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27740593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunmoonstarsrain/pseuds/sunmoonstarsrain
Summary: Yaku bursts into her life like a hurricane, even whilst Akaashi lingers on like the memory of a summer breeze.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Original Female Character(s), Akaashi Keiji/Reader, Yaku Morisuke/Original Female Character(s), Yaku Morisuke/Reader
Series: In the absence of sound (she hears her heart break) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2029213
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	Who dares speak aloud these words (intended for the heart to speak)

**Author's Note:**

> Companion piece to my earlier fic - 'In the absence of sound (she hears her heart break)'

_ Yaku bursts into her life like a hurricane, even whilst Akaashi lingers on like the memory of a summer breeze. _

She runs into Yaku at the New Year’s Party the Japanese embassy in Moscow throws for expatriates ( _ a fancy term to describe birds who’ve flown the coop after finding it unbearably small _ ). He’s in the middle of chattering with a bemused waiter in very broken Russian about the spread when he explodes into a delighted laugh, so loud that she startles and spills her drink all over his shoes. 

Pandemonium ensues – the restaurant staff scatter to fetch napkins and she’s trying to pick up the pieces of her broken glass, stammering out apologies ( _ because dear god, her boss is going to have her head for upsetting a guest – especially one so prominent as Yaku Morisuke, the only Japanese volleyball player who broke into the Russian professional league) _ , when his laugh cuts through the noise. 

‘This  _ was  _ my favourite pair of shoes’ he tells her when he stops laughing, and she’s about to launch into a litany of apologies when he grins at her cheekily – ‘But you can make it up to me by buying me dinner instead’. 

‘Now?’ she gapes at him in shock. ‘I can’t, I’m working’. 

‘Whenever’, he answers, stealing her phone from her hands. ‘Look – here’s my number. Call me when you can’. 

She’s left in shock, watching him in silence as he bounces off to join another conversation. 

She texts him that night ( _ because a deal is a deal, and she always pays her debts _ ) and they arrange to meet the next day at a dumpling place he recommends. 

She’s there five minutes early, and he bursts into the restaurant five minutes late, apologizing whilst complaining about  _ goddamned Russian traffic.  _ He orders for the both of them in such an excruciatingly terrible Russian accent that she winces, but he must have been here before because the waiter takes their order without batting an eye. The owner, a wizened old lady with apples in her cheeks swings by to smack kisses on his cheeks noisily.

‘It’s a little strange, but it’s the closest thing I can find to home’, he tells her when the waiter presents them with their dumplings with a flourish. It is indeed strange – the dumpling skin is thicker and doughier than she’s used to with Japanese  _ gyozas _ , stuffed with varying fillings of beef and pork and cheese, but his eyes are bright when she takes her first bite and gives a hum of appreciation because it is as he says, strange but good. 

There is indeed an echo of  _ home _ in her heart but she clamps it down firmly. 

‘It’s good right?’ he asks and she nods mutely, mouth full of dumplings. He talks her ear away, telling her about his time in the Russian league, how he’s just made the first team this week. She learns he can’t remember a time when he doesn’t know the feel of a volleyball in his hands, and how he broke his mother’s heart when he chose to train outside of Japan, six thousand, four hundred and forty-eight miles away from home. 

He asks her why she’s in Moscow. She tells him she’s studied Russian as a child – her father, a math professor, believed it necessary for her and her sister to learn Russian, and while she’s never quite had a head for numbers, she takes to languages like a fish to water – and since she was looking for a new adventure, Moscow seemed like a good fit. 

_ (She does not tell him she’s actually on the run from her broken heart) _

‘You can teach me Russian then’, his words presumptuous, but there’s mirth and warmth flickering in his eyes that makes her hesitate to tell him off.

‘Maybe’, she responds with a shrug, standing up to pay the bill. To her surprise he lets her pay without a fight - very unlike Akaashi, who had only agreed grudgingly to allow her to split the bill on their first date. 

‘It’s my turn to pay when we go out next time’, he tells her when they stand outside the restaurant about to part. 

‘Will there be a next time?’ she asks him archly, and he pouts at her with puppy-dog eyes. He texts her less than five minutes after he takes his leave, inviting her to an ice skating rink. 

To neither of their surprise, there is indeed, a  _ next time _ , and a  _ next time _ after that.

\-------------------------------------

_ Yaku has an extremely sweet tooth, unlike Akaashi who prefers the bitterness of black coffee. _

She tells him to drop in on her apartment after training ( _only if he’s up to it of course, she’s learnt that lesson from Akaashi after all_ ). He does so without complaint, and she’s removing the pie from the oven when he lets himself in with the key he sweet-talked out of her. 

‘Tadaima’, he calls cheerily, pressing a kiss to her cheek as he drops his gloves on the kitchen table. ‘Is that for me?’ he asks, gaping bug-eyed at the steaming pie in her hands. 

‘I don’t see anyone else it could be for’, she teases, setting the pie down on the table, cutting him a slice. The fruit seller at the corner of her street had a sale on apples, and she remembers Yaku telling her that he used to buy apple pie on the way to school every week, but would always end up giving it up to Kenma as a bribe to train harder during practice and finish running his laps. 

He takes a bite and moans loudly even though he burns his tongue – it’s  _ so good _ , a flaky, buttery crust hiding a jammy filling of caramelized apple and browned butter. It tastes like home in the fall when the leaves turn golden and red, when his mother brings home apples on discount from the store and he and his little brothers fight over the apples pastries his grandmother makes. 

‘I love you’, he declares firmly, as he reaches for a second helping, and he pretends not to notice when she shrinks back and does not respond.

\-------------------------------------

_ Yaku revels in public displays of affection - unlike Akaashi, who used to shy away from it.  _

‘I like your hair. Have you always kept it short?’ He asks her one day when they’re feeding ducks in the park near his house. 

She laughs at him as he quacks exaggeratedly back at a very greedy duck chasing the bread in his hand and answers without thinking - ‘no, I cut it before I left Japan because I hear it’s what break-ups make you do’. Then she freezes, because this is the first time she’s ever alluded to Keiji to him – it’s a part of her life that she’d very much like to bury in a deep, dark vault and throw the key away. 

But the expression on his face is very much like a cat eyeing a rat it’d like very much to trap and she’s right, he’s relentless ( _ she should’ve known that, could’ve seen that from just watching one of his matches).  _ As he walks her home, she finds herself telling him about Keiji - how his lack of affection and inability to step away from his job created a silence so still she heard her heart break.

When she finishes what she self-deprecatingly terms her tale of woe, he pulls her to a stop, ignoring the indignant protests of the people walking behind them. ‘What on earth, Mori’, she squawks, but he ignores her too, choosing instead to wind his hands into the ends of her scarf and tug her face to face with him. She does not want to look at him, does not want to see  _ pity _ in his eyes – but there is none of  _ that _ , only a quiet tenderness that warms her to her core. 

‘I love you’, he tells her softly, and it’s a wonder she can hear every inflection of his voice through the rush of blood to her ears. ‘I will continue saying it as many times as you need, as loudly as I can until your heart is no longer broken and the silence is gone’. 

Then, without an ounce of shame, he kisses her right in the middle of the busy street, completely oblivious to the glares of the people who pass them by. 

\-------------------------------------

_ Yaku is quick to anger, whereas Akaashi is the calm before the storm.  _

She’s told him again and again not to send her flowers – she swears she’s developed an allergy to them, the memory of Keiji sending her flowers every Friday even after they broke up sends bile up her throat ( _ pink camellias for longing, violets for devotion, forget-me-nots for obvious reasons _ ) – but Yaku doesn’t  _ listen _ and sends her a bouquet of red roses for her birthday ( _ for love _ ). 

So she screams at him when he pops by her flat after training –  _ because why on earth doesn’t he just listen to her, he knows she hates flowers, what on earth would possess him to send her flowers for her birthday _ , and he screams back that  _ he does, damn it - but he’s not Keiji, he’s spent their entire time together trying to prove that, why can’t she just trust him for once _ . 

Finally, he storms out shouting that _he’ll come back_ _when she’s calmed down, when she’s finally ready to forgive him for whatever Keiji has done – even though for the last goddamned time, he’s not bloody Keiji_ and she sinks to the floor, wondering why she’s allowed the ghost of Keiji to continue haunting her, six thousand, four hundred and forty-eight miles away from home. 

He’s right - it isn’t fair to him for her to keep comparing him to Keiji, to keep watching and waiting for him to slip up, not when he’s poured all his love and affection into her – into  _ them _ . He’s  _ not _ Keiji, never has been and never will be, and she wonders if this is the point his patience and kindness and  _ love _ finally runs out. 

But she’s not going to let another man she loves walk out of her life without a fight. 

So she throws on her coat and climbs down the stairs, determined to march to Yaku’s apartment just a couple of streets away when she slams into him head-first at the corner of her street. ‘I’m sorry’ they both chorus immediately, and despite themselves, they break into a laugh. 

‘I’m sorry for not listening’, he says, but she shakes her head, determined to say her piece. ‘You're right, it's my fault for not letting Keiji go. I should have figured this out earlier, but I know you’re not Keiji, you never have been, and I trust you never will be’. 

And to drive the point home, thanking her lucky stars he’s not tall, she pulls him close by his collar and presses her lips to his. ‘I love you’, she whispers, when they finally come up for air. He looks at her like she just hung the stars up in the sky. 

The next day, she presents him with a literal bushel of red roses, and he laughs at that - loud and clear and bright. 

_ (The sound makes her heart feel whole again) _

\-------------------------------------

‘Why don’t you move with me’, Yaku asks her matter of factly through a mouthful of rice, at the end of her tirade about her awful landlord who just tried to stiff her by doubling her rent in less than a year with a month’s notice. 

She stills, hand frozen halfway to her mouth. He does not swallow for fear of choking the mix of uncertainty and hope rising in his throat -  _ because sometimes even though he promises to wait for her as long as she needs, he wonders if she’ll ever forget that he’s not her bloody ex _ – until he senses her relaxing her tense shoulders, and decides to close in for the kill. 

‘Come on’, he wheedles. ‘We could even adopt a kitten so you won’t be lonely when I’m away for work’, and he laughs fondly when her face lights up.  _ There we go _ . 

‘You drive a hard bargain, but alright’, she pretends to grouse, but she laughs along with him when he triumphantly presses his lips to her cheek, dodging her swats when she scolds him for leaving grains of rice on her face. 

They adopt a black kitten from the shelter and they name him ‘ _ Kuroo _ ’. 

Much like its namesake, their cat is a piece of shit and contrary as hell. He doubles over in laughter when he comes home one day to find her chasing Kuroo (the cat,  _ not _ the middle blocker) around the house, furniture upended everywhere. He later understands through her huffs that she meant to give him a bath. 

He sends endless pictures of Kuroo (again, the cat and  _ not _ the middle blocker) to the Nekoma groupchat and they all fall head over heels in love. Kai sends him advice on how to grow catnip in an apartment. Fukunaga asks to video call the cat more than he texts him. Shibayama and Inouka ship a box of clothes for the cat because they’re worried it won’t survive the Russian winter. The worst offenders are Kenma who sets up social media accounts for it, and  _ bloody international supermodel Lev _ who pours oil on flames by tagging the damn cat on his own posts. Yaku is alarmed to wake up one day and find that his cat is more popular than him. 

Well, all of them save for its namesake, who threatens to retaliate by naming his dog ‘Yaku’. 

\-------------------------------------

He gets drafted onto the National Team, and he’s elated until he realizes that he’ll have to spend months away from her. 

‘It’s fine’, she reassures him. ‘Kuroo will keep me company while you’re back home’. The little demon licks its ass and looks intolerably smug even as he shoots a glare at it behind her back, because he knows damn well the cat is going to take advantage of his absence to take over his side of the bed. 

He extracts a promise from her to call him every day ( _ screw the time difference, seriously _ ) and he in turn promises to send her tickets to watch him play. Then he packs his bags and flies back to Tokyo. 

It’s nostalgic being back in his childhood home. The posters from his teenage years are still on his bedroom walls ( _ gods – he was such a horny bastard back then _ ), and his mother smothers him with his favourite foods and far too much attention. But he lays awake at night thinking of their little apartment filled with the smell of her baking and the sound of her singing and realizes he misses  _ Kuroo  _ \- again, the cat, not the middle blocker, who’d miss  _ him _ \- despite its despicable way of stalking him while he takes a shit and most of all - he misses  _ her _ . 

He figures he has it bad when he starts turning down his grandmother’s apple pastries because they remind him too painfully of the apple pies  _ she _ makes after either of them have had a hard day at work, and wonders when he started thinking of Moscow and the little apartment he shares with her as _ home. _

But he soldiers on because playing for Japan is his dream ( _ and has been, ever since he first learnt the thrill of keeping the ball in flight with his hands) _ , and gets by on video calls and texts and pictures of Kuroo and the promise of dumplings and apple pies when he comes home. 

\-------------------------------------

He makes the mistake of mentioning that he has a girlfriend in Miya Atsumu’s earshot after practice one day. 

‘You have a girlfriend?’ the piss-haired setter asks in disbelief. ‘You? Mr bossy - under five foot five – libero-chan managed to land himself a girl that’s willing to tolerate him?’ 

‘Just because you have an issue keeping girls from running away from you doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t find girlfriends’, Sakusa interjects flatly, face firmly masked up, trusty bottle of sanitizer pointed in Atsumu’s direction. 

Yaku is about to claw Atsumu’s eyes out when Hinata prances by and asks to see a picture of said girlfriend. Growling, he whips out his phone, and is mollified when the rest of the team crowds around and pronounces her to be very pretty. Everyone – except Atsumu, who sulks in a corner, sneering that he could do better ( _ no he can’t - he really can’t get a girl to save his life _ ), and Bokuto, who corners him later when he’s about to leave. 

‘She used to date Akaashi, you know?’ Bokuto tells him solemnly, a marked departure from his usual jovial self. ‘They broke up on a pretty bad note’. 

Yaku does not in fact know, because she’s never mentioned her ex-boyfriend’s last name, always opting to refer to him as ‘Keiji’, a fairly popular name for guys their age. ‘Oh?’ he replies, and tries his best to sound encouraging and not derisive or threatening or whatever it is that Atsumu has accused him of over the past few weeks of training. 

‘Yeah. She’s a nice girl, I met her once or twice, but between you and me, I don’t think Akaashi is really over her’. 

_ Too bad for him,  _ he wants to say but doesn’t, because despite whatever Atsumu might say about him, he’s tactful,  _ thank you very much,  _ and knows it’s probably not the best idea to badmouth his teammate’s best friend to his face, especially a teammate he likes as much as Bokuto. Instead, he stuffs his shoes in his bag, shrugging and grunting noncommittally before heading off. 

He doesn’t mention this to her during their nightly video calls. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want them to have to talk about him being an old acquaintance with her idiot ex over a call, their time together is too precious to be tainted by any mention of  _ him. _ But there’s a part of him that wonders if it’s because he’s afraid that she’ll bump into Akaashi when she’s back in Japan and he might convince her to let him sweep her away. Akaashi is tall, dark and handsome, and most definitely smarter and more educated after all - a better match for her than him, an idiot that chases balls for a living. 

But then her laughter chimes through his phone’s speakers as he pouts when she carries Kuroo to the screen to ask if he misses his daddy ( _ the traitorous hell spawn refuses to even look at him _ ) and it banishes the shadow of his doubts away. It’s as clear as day that she loves  _ him,  _ ball chasing idiot Yaku Morisuke.

He falls asleep to the sound of her humming his favourite songs. 

\-------------------------------------

She flies to Japan with their cat in tow a week before the Olympics and even though he’s moved into the Olympic dorms by then, he sneaks out to meet her for dinner as often as he can. Atsumu catches him once and grumbles something about  _ ‘hypocritical bossy know-it-alls’ _ \- but shuts up when Yaku turns up for practice the next day and is too busy grinning ear to ear to yell at him for flubbing an easy receive as he usually does. 

When he finally steps onto the court for his first match, it’s easy to get carried away, because the light bearing down on the court is brighter than any game he’s played in before, and the roar of the home crowd is so loud he swears the tremors in his feet are from the floor - but he doesn’t. Because there’s a girl in the VIP stands shouting his name, and maybe it’s childish of him, but he has something to prove - he wants to make her proud. 

And he does, because they  _ win _ .

The entire team is in the locker room when he hears the clatter of familiar footsteps, then a shrieked ‘ _ Mori’  _ before she tackles him into a bone-crushing hug. Atsumu barks at her ‘ _ not to break our dear libero-chan _ ’, but neither of them pay him any mind - she doesn’t even care that he’s literally dripping in sweat and snot and tears - because they won, they won, they  _ won _ -

Then he looks up and sees Akaashi staring at them.  _ Ah. The idiot ex-boyfriend has to ruin their moment _ . 

Just as he’s wondering whether his fist should meet Akaashi’s eye or nose first, Bokuto swings by at the moment to distract her. She’s so excited at seeing a familiar face that she disengages herself from their hug and throws her arms around Bokuto instead. Yaku thinks that Bokuto is probably a lot smarter than most people give him credit for as Akaashi approaches him, his hand outstretched. 

‘Take care of her’, Akaashi says with a bittersweet smile on his lips. ‘You’re a lucky man’.

He pauses briefly to glance at her - and  _ gods _ she’s radiant even as she’s chattering away to Bokuto, her eyes sparkling, the light shining softly on her hair -  _ fuck, Atsumu’s right, he’s whipped -  _ and tries to imagine a world where she slips through his hands. Suddenly, the twisted knot of spite in his chest unravels, and he can only feel the dregs of pity pooling in his belly. He's not blind, he can recognise the look of wistful regret on the taller man’s face, and he's certainly not deaf - he suspects that if he listens hard enough, he can hear Akaashi’s heart break.

_ I know, I’m lucky to have her _ \- he wants to say but does not because that would mean twisting a knife in an already broken man. Instead, he steps forward to take Akaashi’s hand. 

‘Always’, he promises firmly. Akaashi inclines his head in thanks. 

_ Her heart is safe in my hands.  _

\-------------------------------------

She returns to Russia first, and he follows a few weeks later, after a whirlwind of awards and press interviews.

He breaks into a run when he sees her standing at the arrivals gate with a bouquet of red roses and a cheeky grin on her face. ‘You’re rubbing it in at this point’, he pretends to pout, but rather spoils its effect when he swings her into his arms. 

She cooks dumplings for dinner and there’s an apple pie waiting for him in the oven. His jaw drops in surprise when the dumplings taste exactly like his mother’s cooking. ‘I learnt it from your mum while you were at training, in case you already miss home’, she teases. 

‘But with you, I  _ am _ home’, he responds, his voice earnest and low. She flushes pink and blushes bright red when he carries her off to bed. 

_ She  _ is his home now, she and their cat in their little flat in Moscow bursting at its seams with apple pies and dumplings and  _ love _ . 

‘I want this to be my forever’, he tells her later, laying his head in her lap. His heart skips a beat, waiting for her response. 

‘So do I’, she finally replies, running her hands through his hair. Her heart hums quietly, finally in safe hands. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Title stolen from Song Of The Soul XXII by Khalil Gibran. 
> 
> Wrote this indulgent piece angst and fluff to reset after the very angsty 'The Astrophile' (which took a lot of my own heart). 
> 
> As always, comments and/or kudos are gladly appreciated <3


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